


Apres La Bataille

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Shotacon, Tsunderes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sinbad no Bouken time-setting. After conquering Baal, Dragul Nor Henrius (...) of the Partevian house Dragul is exhausted, annoyed, and stressed over his own failure. How a commoner bested him is beyond his comprehension, especially when his faith in his own country is less than satisfactory. Arguments, however, quickly turn to other things, because if nothing else, they'll at least walk away with a bit more experience, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apres La Bataille

He'll be returning a laughingstock. 

 

It's the thought that Dragul wakes with, the shame of it--no, the _anger_ surrounding it making him grit his teeth. The thought is there tenfold when he cracks his eyes open, sees that _brat_ Sinbad there gloating with his treasure, with that strange creature's seal--a djinn? was that what he had called himself?--glowing still upon his sword. 

 

His father is going to _kill him_. God, maybe it will be a merciful thing, facing death after such failure. 

 

"… It would have been too much to ask, apparently, to be returned properly _home_ ," he crossly mutters, slowly sitting up and trying to ignore the stiffness in his muscles, exacerbated by the night's chill. Bested by a _commoner_. That has to be a new low. "How far away are we?" 

 

“A day’s journey, or thereabouts,” Sinbad answers, admiring his bloody, filthy expression in the polished gold of an urn before setting it gently on the pile. He’s nearly done counting, not even close to knowing how he’s going to carry it all back. “Maybe less, we can use some of this to buy a few camels to carry us back with all this treasure.” 

 

He stretches out, letting his hand fall on the hilt of his sword not as a threat, but just because he likes feeling the thrum of power in it. “Did you want to start at night, or are you still sleepy? Looks like that dungeon took a lot out of you.”

 

"It certainly did _not_. I'm not _sleepy_ , either--you knocked me out, you bloody--" Dragul's teeth grind as he cuts himself off, feeling his blood pressure rise just with the _memory_ of their 'fight', if he can even call it that what with how _humiliating_ it had been. "My head hurts. You carry all of your _treasure_ back on your own; I'll be resting properly, thank you very much." 

 

Oh, Sinbad’s enjoying himself now. He affects concern, leaning in to touch Drakon’s forehead. “Are you sure? I hit you pretty hard, you might need to rest for a while. Just let me get this scratch on my arm bandaged up and I’ll come see to you, _Commander_.”

 

In spite of himself, Dragul feels his face flush hot, and he slaps Sinbad's hand away as quickly as he can manage. "Who said you could touch me? I don't need your _aid_ , you filthy commoner." It makes him angrier still, thinking back on how he had almost _enjoyed_ conquering that dungeon with this brat--or was it really 'with'? More like he had been following at Sinbad's heels, and that makes a hard lump form in his throat. 

 

Sinbad rolls his eyes, straightening up and fetching a golden crown from the pile, setting it jauntily on his head. “I won’t be a filthy commoner much longer. This much treasure buys a lot of rose-scented baths, I think.” He stands, hands on his hips, staring off into the distance. _And a lot of medicine. Hold on, Mama._

 

He forces a smile, settling down onto the ground. “If you want to take something for helping me through, you can if you want. So your father doesn’t get angry.”

 

Somehow, that makes him even _more_ annoyed. "I don't need a damned thing from you," Dragul sneers, arms folding tightly over his chest as he looks away. "If you think a rose-scented bath will make you even an _ounce_ noble, then you're a bigger idiot than I thought. What could a brat like you do with that much treasure, anyway?" 

 

Sinbad flashes him a cheerful grin. “Maybe I’ll buy an army and take Partevia. Then I’ll be more noble than you.”

 

The ridiculousness of that statement just makes Dragul _stare_. "Impossible. You--you can't _possibly_ afford an army still, do you even understand how much those sorts of things cost?" 

 

Sinbad frowns, taking the crown off his head and tossing it back on the pile, picking up a jeweled dagger instead. “Good point. And being king doesn’t sound like fun anyway. Maybe I’ll just be a pirate.” He raises a rakish eyebrow. “Maybe I should start plundering you first.”

 

"A _pirate_ certainly fits your upbringing much more accurately," Dragul sniffs, and settles upon scowling, eyes narrowed. "And what does _that_ even mean? I told you before, don't touch me. I won't let you best me again--Sinbad, was it? What a ridiculous name."

 

Sinbad laughs aloud at that, wiping tears from his eyes when the laughter just doesn’t _stop_. “Maybe I should rob you of three quarters of your name,” he chokes out. “I’d be doing you a favor.”

 

Dragul's scowl deepens. "Of course a _peasant_ like yourself wouldn't understand the importance of a noble's name. My house has carried its titles for generations."

 

“Oh yeah? Is that why you fight so slow, because you’re carrying all that name around?” Sinbad asks almost innocently.

 

A slow hiss escapes through his teeth. "I'm hardly _slow_. _You_ just don't think at all. What a reckless idiot, you just got lucky this time."

 

“You want to bet?” His hand falls to the hilt of the sword again, and the seal on the blade flashes white-hot. “I’ll fight you again any time you want.”

 

Dragul's gaze flickers to that seal, apprehensive in spite of himself. _Some commander I am_ , he bitterly thinks, trying to shove down that anxiety, the worry that it would be even _more_ difficult to best Sinbad in a match now. There's no telling what sort of magic he has at his disposal now. "Don't you need to save your strength for carrying your treasure back home?" he snidely retorts, nose in the air. "Forget it. I hardy desire wasting my time with you any longer." 

 

Sinbad shrugs, then flops down on his mound of treasure, biting down a wince. All the novels and illustrations had somehow made him think it would work, but it just feels like a pile of cold metal, and his hip feels like a big ache now. That’s something not to do again, then. “Don’t worry about it, I’d be scared to fight me too.”

 

"I'm not _scared_ of you!" The mere idea of it makes him flush, furious, and Dragul fairly growls in the back of his throat. "I'm _sick_ of you. That dungeon wasn't meant for a commoner like you! Just--" He huffs out a petulant breath, and it takes everything in his power not to shoulder his pack, stomp his foot, and _leave_. "Forget it. Just enjoy the fruit of your _exploits_. This hardly excuses you from your obligations to your country, you know. Gold doesn't last forever, either." 

 

Sinbad strides over, all smiles gone from his face, and slams his foot down _hard_ to the ground near the other boy. “It wasn’t _meant_ for me? Then how come I was allowed in? How come Baal didn’t care at _all_ who was a commoner and who was wearing fancy clothes?” His face twists in disgust. “This country doesn’t deserve anything from me, or any of its citizens. It would be better to burn it to the ground.”

 

Dragul rather _hates_ that he flinches, though he manages to keep his eyes sharp as he glares up at Sinbad. "I should have known you would be such a traitor to your own country. You can say that all you want, but you were still born here--this country still fed you and nurtured you. You should have more respect."

 

“My mother _nurtured_ me,” Sinbad snarls, “and my _father_ fed me, and after the way this country has treated them, it’ll be lucky if I _don’t_ burn it to the ground!” 

 

He turns away, hands clenched hard, and at least his first instinct was fists rather than his sword. “But a lot of innocent people would die,” he says quietly, as though that’s the only barrier to the actual task of burning the country down around them, leaving it a barren desert.

 

"Your father was a soldier, wasn't he?" Dragul isn't sure why he bothers asking, or why he should even _care_. He'll go with 'this brat is annoying, and maybe this will make him shut up and be a more obedient soldier himself eventually.' "That was his _job_. If he served his country willingly, you can't blame anything on it. As for your mother… well, I don't know what you think Partevia has done to _her_. Surely you can understand that our country is trying to protect its citizens by having a strong military."

 

“He didn’t _want_ to go.” Sinbad doesn’t remember all that much about his father, but he remembers that much at least, overhearing his mother weeping into Dad’s shoulder, Dad promising that whatever he had to do, he would _stay alive_ so he could come back. “They dragged him out. Mom worked hard all her life but as soon as she got sick, no one cared. The nobles we _serve_ don’t care about whether we live or die, just if we can work.” He glares at Drakon. “I had a cat once. I treated it better than that.”

 

"The military is here to protect Partevia's citizens," Dragul repeats, albeit a bit less firmly as he pushes himself to his feet with a scowl, and rather hating how _dizzy_ he feels when he stands. "Of course no one _wants_ to die, but dying for one's country is an honor all the same, don't you understand that? And if you have troubles, then bring them to the representative of your district--that's what they're there for, after all. My father says that we must work hard to maintain our country's traditions, even under the threat of other nations' encroachment; don't you want that? Or are you so intent on being a rebellious little snot that you can't see the bigger picture?" 

 

Sinbad draws his sword in an eyeblink, slashing through the air to let it rest on Drakon’s neck, the edge sharp enough to draw a single drop of blood as his eyes grow dark. “Then I’m an enemy of this country,” he says, low and deadly. “If it’s such an honor to die for it, take a step forward.”

 

Dragul's teeth grit, and he forces back the nervous shake to follow as he steps forward, letting the blade cut deeper into his flesh and draw a slow, trickling stream of blood. "I won't die a traitor," he stubbornly says. "And you--I don't think you want to, either, no matter what you think of Partevia and its laws. You… came to my aid, within that dungeon." The words sort of stick in his throat, but he manages to force them out all the same. "If you truly hated everything about this country, surely you would have taken a chance to kill the son of its highest ranked general."

 

Sinbad holds that gaze for a few tense moments, then lets the sword fall, thrusting it back through his belt. “Just because I don’t like the laws doesn’t mean I don’t like the country,” he admits, “and it’s not your fault your father’s a general.”

 

Now that his blood has cooled, he flinches at the sight of the cut in Drakon’s neck, something he hadn’t _meant_ to do, not really. “I’d offer you my handkerchief, but you’d probably think it was too dirty to touch your skin.”

 

"… It isn't my _fault?_ You say that as if my heritage isn't an honor. I--" Dragul bites his tongue before he can prickle too much in irritation, and he huffs, lifting a hand to press it to the still bleeding cut. "It depends on whether or not you've already bled on it," he eventually mutters. 

 

Begrudgingly, Sinbad pulls out his handkerchief, washed and starched by his mother, clean cotton with a tiny embroidered flower in the corner. He hands it over, not meeting Drakon’s eyes. “I don’t know much about fancy heritage,” he admits. “Just that when nobles come down around us common folk, we die. And then they tell the ones left behind we should be grateful.”

 

Gingerly, Dragul takes the handkerchief, feeling sort of guilty about pressing the (remarkably) clean thing to his bleeding neck. " _Anyone_ should feel grateful about surviving war," he huffs, and he flops back down less gracefully than he'd like to. "I'm… sorry, that your father didn't." Hopefully, that sounds somewhat sincere. He's _trying_ to be, at any rate, even if it's all sorts of awkward and strange. "But you should be proud that he fought, all the same. I would be proud if my father died fighting for Partevia, and grateful, that he was doing so to protect us."

 

Sinbad scratches his head, unbinding and rebinding his sweat-soaked hair, even cool now with the night’s chill. “My father was a good soldier. He was strong, and brave, and no one ever told me how or why he died. No one told us how he was protecting Partevia, I don’t even know where his body was burned or who he was fighting.”

 

He looks up, eyes searching. “How am I supposed to be proud of that?”

 

"… But it was still _for_ Partevia. In war… sometimes, even nobles don't know everything. My father…" Dragul hesitates, lowering the handkerchief to see if the bleeding has stopped. "He doesn't always tell me everything, either, and I'm one of his commanders." 

 

Sinbad drops down to the ground, suddenly tired. “Then how do you know if his orders are right?” he asks. “I mean, he tells you to kill people, right? How do you know they’re bad people?”

 

"He wants the best for Partevia. I trust him." Dragul worries his lower lip with his teeth, carefully folding the handkerchief carefully up. "Though I've never… really killed anyone before. Not yet."

 

Sinbad eyes the other boy, thinking. Drakon can’t be much older than he himself, but that kind of statement… “I forgot how sheltered you must have been,” he admits, without any malice. “But, okay, you trust him. And maybe your dad is the best guy in the world, and he always wants the best for Partevia. What about the king? Is he the same way?”

 

Dragul opens his mouth to immediately be angry again, though decides, quickly, that it takes too much effort and he slumps back tiredly. "Of course he does. He's the _king_. Why would he even bother if he didn't want his country to prosper?"

 

Sinbad shrugs. “I have friends that work in the palace. Lots of them say he likes gold and women more than he likes the country. I heard he sent a _lot_ of men in to that dungeon, and sent soldiers to kill anyone who came out and take the treasure from him.”

 

"That can't possibly be true. There weren't any soldiers waiting for us, were there?" Dragul sniffs, folding his arms again. "The king has never been anything but kind to me. He likes gold and women, sure, but _most_ men do."

 

“Maybe that weird Yunan guy sent the soldiers away,” Sinbad suggests. “Or maybe you’re really supposed to kill me now. Or you were supposed to get all the treasure and bring it home to him.” He can’t really argue with the rest of it. _He_ likes gold and women plenty, after all. “Have you ever met him?”

 

His brow furrows at that. "You're too annoying to bother killing, and he would have told me if those were my orders, besides," Dragul mutters, looking aside. "And… I've never met him in person. He sends my father and I gifts, though, and I trained alongside his own sons."

 

Sinbad leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he looks up at Drakon. “You know, if he dies, one of his sons will be king. Do you think they’ll always make the right decision about who should live and who should die?”

 

"They've trained for it all their lives," Dragul insists, frowning. "Why are you asking things like that? Do you really think you're so much better than them to make decisions?" 

 

 _Yes_. Sinbad shrugs, saying nothing aloud. “I just don’t see why we should have to do what they say. They do nothing for us. We didn’t choose to serve them. We get killed for trying to leave. And I heard that the last war was because our king wanted to take over another country to the south. Why should my father die so a man I’ve never met can own a place no one I know has ever been to?”

 

"Because it's still to better _your_ country. You--ugh, do you like giving people headaches?" Dragul incredulously retorts, turning partially away with an irritated noise. "What is it you want them to _do_ for you, anyway? You said your mother was sick--I'll have a doctor sent to your home, maybe that will restore some of your loyalty, you brat." 

 

“I don’t _need_ your pity, I can pay for a doctor myself now.” Sinbad looks away, unable to deny that his heart had leapt at those words. “But….thank you.”

 

If someone noble had given a damn about her a year ago, had sent a doctor, had _listened_ to him when he’d done everything, knocked his hands bloody at his father’s superior officer’s door and begged for what they were owed, his mother wouldn’t be dying.

 

But that wasn’t Drakon, even if he’d probably have spat on Sinbad if he’d seen him in the street back then. “I’m going to make sure she gets a great doctor,” he says quietly, looking up at the stars. “And I’m going to pay for us to go on an adventure together. I want to see what other countries are out there. Maybe there are some really good ones. Maybe Partevia really is the best one.” He settles back onto his hands, eyes shining. “I just want her to see some things that aren’t slums for the rest of her life.”

 

"If you're really that intent on leaving… then I wish you luck, I suppose." It's probably not worth arguing with Sinbad, anyway. He's done nothing but _win_ arguments since they've met, and that's frustrating and tiresome all at once. "Just so you know," he stiffly adds a moment later, "doctors don't always fix everything. Don't blame that on Partevia, too." 

 

Sinbad’s eyes dim, and he blinks in the starlight, looking down. “I know. But….she’ll be so happy to see what I’ve done.” He looks over at the cold metal and rocks, glittering in the starlight. “I just know she’ll get better after that, if I can just make her smile again.”

 

 _It doesn't work like that_ , is what he wants to say, but he bites that back, too. "And you say I'm sheltered. Idiot," Dragul mutters, heaving a long sigh. "I wish Baal had at least given you some wine to toast your 'victory' with. Not that I want to toast to you or anything," he quickly clarifies. "Just that _drinking_ would be better than sitting here and _talking_." 

 

Sinbad sighs at the mention of wine. “That would be better. I wish he’d had some _girls_ in there too, that would be just as good as wine.”

 

Dragul snorts. "You say that as if you've had plenty. Is that all you brats do down there in the slums, roll around on the ground?" 

 

“Not really,” Sinbad says with a grin. “Why do it on the ground when we can sneak into a noble’s garden and do it there?”

 

Dragul's mouth opens, then shuts again, incredulous. "And you've never been _caught?_ " 

 

“Once. What’s the man with the roses as his crest, and the big blue stones on the door? He set the dogs on us once. Got away with a hiding, though.”

 

"… You're the _worst_ ," he manages, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm _glad_ there aren't girls here, then. I don't want to see that, you probably rut like dogs." 

 

Sinbad lets out a laugh, laying back, head pillowed on his folded hands. “How do you _nobles_ do it, then? Like snakes? Like horses?”

 

" _Properly_. Not disgustingly." Dragul huffs. "I don't want to think about how many girls you've probably had, it makes me think you're even that much more impossibly _dirty_." 

 

“But now I’m curious,” Sinbad protests. “I want to know how to do it _properly_.” He raises up onto one elbow, intrigued. “Let me do it to you.”

 

Dragul _stares_ at him, aghast. "I'm not a _girl_ \--or some _harem boy,_ for that matter! How can you say that with a straight face?!"

 

Sinbad shrugs. “Want to,” he says simply. “Fighting always makes me hard. Plus I want to see how nobles do it. I’ll let you do it after if you want.”

 

The _gall_ of this guy. Never _mind_ that he's a commoner, the fact he's just casually throwing things like this around, _saying_ things like that--Dragul flushes hot, choking down a dozen less than refined responses before settling upon: "What makes you assume I would even _want_ to?! I--besides, I--" Ah. He's even redder now, and entirely too flustered to bite his tongue. "I've never… really _done it_ before." 

 

That’s too good an opportunity to pass up, and Sinbad can think of a hundred mocking things to say, but…. He bites his tongue, and admits, “I haven’t….really, either. I mean, I’ve gotten pretty far with girls, but…”

 

_But I’m not leaving a girl with a child when I can’t pay for it, and she’ll probably just be poor and sick like Mom._

 

Ah. Fantastic. So now he's embarrassed himself for no reason, that's just _lovely_. "Then why did you _say_ you've done it?" Dragul growls in frustration, grinding his teeth as he looks to the side. 

 

“I’ve done a lot of stuff! I bet a girl’s never sucked you, right? Or let you put your hand up her skirt?” Sinbad huffs out a breath. “I was waiting until I was rich enough to take care of a babe, if we got unlucky. And now I want to celebrate. Let me do it.”

 

"I'm not a girl!" is his sort of shrill repeat, and it's very annoying how his voice cracks a bit. "And I definitely wouldn't suck you even if I was, so don't get any ideas!"

 

Even if he was sort of joking at first, now Sinbad feels rather taken with the idea. He sits up, looking speculatively at the other boy. “You’re pretty enough, though,” he muses. “And you have really nice legs. Come on, I said I’d let you do it after, then tomorrow neither of us ever have to say that we’ve never done it.”

 

The fact that Sinbad has been _looking_ enough to compliment his legs makes his skin flush that much hotter. "I… are you saying I look like a girl?" he weakly attempts to protest. "Because I most certainly _do not_. And what makes you think I would even _want_ to do it to you?"

 

“Well,” Sinbad suggests, “because sticking it in someone is a lot more fun than not sticking it in someone? Not only girls are pretty, you know,” he adds. “I’m pretty.”

 

" _You're_ smeared with blood and dirt," Dragul growls. "And you have a ridiculous ponytail." 

 

“And you’re wearing a leather skirt. I won’t be picky if you won’t.” Sinbad shrugs, a grin tugging at his lips. “Soldiers do this kind of thing all the time. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

 

He really wishes they had that wine right about now.

 

At least then, he'd have something to _blame_ the sort-of curiosity on past his own, disgusting thoughts. Dragul sets his teeth to his lower lip again, worrying it as he thinks. Probably, he'll never see or hear of this brat again. There's no way anyone will _know_ \--and it's certainly more fun, in theory, than sitting in the cold desert and arguing about one's country all night. "… All right," is the eventual, hesitant reply. "But if it's no good, I'll slay you with your own sword."

 

Sinbad grins, and reaches for the other boy, tugging him down by the wrist. He loves the closeness of another body next to his, especially on a cold night, and his fingers are agile, working at every fastening of Drakon’s uniform. “How do you want to do it?” he asks, eyes alight with eagerness. “Like a dog, or like a woman?”

 

His mouth opens, even though he's a little too taken aback to reply. "… How am I suppose to choose between those options?" Dragul eventually manages, eyes wide. "I'm _neither_ , I'm a noble and you should be treating me like one."

 

Sinbad snorts. “Fine. How does a noble get fucked?”

 

"I…" Ah. Yes, that would be his face somehow becoming even _redder_. He's starting to get lightheaded from this. "I-I don't know. I told you, I've never done this before!"

 

Sinbad’s mouth spreads in a slow grin. “All right. I’ll make it easier for you.” He tugs Drakon down to the ground, shoving him down on his back, leaning over him and dragging a thigh up between his legs. “Like this?” he asks, almost mildly. “Or on your hands and knees?”

 

This should make him _angry_. What it definitely shouldn't do is make his body _twitch_ in response, and Dragul gulps, breath coming a little too fast. Well, he knows one thing; there's no way in hell he's letting Sinbad take him like a dog. This is the lesser of two evils. "This… is fine, I suppose." He squirms, _trying_ to avoid the press of Sinbad's thigh and failing rather miserably. "Do you _mind?_ " 

 

Sinbad rolls his eyes. “Let’s do this, I want to see how far that stick up your ass really goes.”

 

He yanks at Drakon's clothing, then eases his trousers down and off, stroking a hand over himself, trying to remember to _breathe_ when he’s quite this excited about finally having it _in_ someone, even if that someone is a high-and-mighty noble. “Spread your legs a little wider,” he murmurs, then asks, “Do you want me to...kiss you first?”

 

"W-why would I want you to do that?" This is _hardly_ how he'd expected his first time to go. With a harem girl, perhaps, or better yet, with his actual chosen wife, a girl of proper _breeding_ \--not being taken by some boy of the slums that bested him in a sword fight for a dungeon some hours earlier. 

 

With that in mind, he shouldn't be _quite_ so hard, but Dragul has decided that logic and Sinbad apparently don't go hand in hand. "Anyway, you can't just--I'm not a _girl_ , I've told you, there has to be something to _ease it_." At least, he remembers that well enough, from an accidental glimpse of his father playing with a harem boy. His cheeks flush hot as he adds in a mumble, "Just--grab the saddle oil from my pack."

 

Sinbad tries, but he can’t quite control the little snicker that he lets out at that. He fumbles for the oil, murmuring, “I’m so glad we have an expert on the subject.” 

 

He rubs a slick hand over his own cock, eyes lighting up at the smooth slide, and ahh, he’s going to have to steal the rest of this oil when they’re done. Not entirely sure what to do next, he tips a bit more down, splashing over Drakon’s balls and trickling down to his ass. That’s probably good enough, he decides, and positions himself between Drakon’s spread legs. 

 

He’s _pretty_ , from this angle, face flushed and eyes squeezed shut, and Sinbad grins. “I’m coming in,” he warns, and pushes forward, breath suddenly _gone_ as he shoves into that intense, tight heat gripping his cock, wiping his mind _clean_.

 

Dragul considers himself to have a fairly decent pain tolerance. This is less about _pain_ , though, more about some odd, aching stretch that steals the breath from his lungs, and it's with great effort that he doesn't whine, the sound strangled in his throat as his legs tremble, torn between spreading wider and clamping to Sinbad's hips out of some obscene _reflex_. 

 

Sweat beads on his brow, and Dragul shifts, biting his lip to keep back a whimper as his eyes crack open. "J-just…" Right, breathing. He knows how to do that, even with a cock buried inside of him that feels even _bigger_ than what he got a glimpse of. "Just… move already-- _slow_ ," he hastily thinks to add, his chest heaving.

 

Even if this is his first time doing this himself, Sinbad knows what it’s supposed to look like, how fucking is _supposed_ to go, and he gives himself a bare second to catch his breath before starting to move, slowly, in and out. It’s so tight, and the faces Drakon is making are actually really nice to look at, and the hitching groans in his throat come faster and louder with each thrust. “Better?” he gasps out, then remembers a pretty surefire way to make it feel good, and fumbles between them for a second before grabbing the other boy’s cock.

 

Maybe Sinbad's had his hands up a dozen girls' skirts or whatever, but that's _definitely_ the first time someone's grabbed _his_ cock--well, outside of a maid trying to flirt his way into his bedroom, but that was just _awkward_ and this is--

 

Actually, surprisingly _good._

 

Dragul does't really want to think about what that makes him, but the entirely needy way that his hips lurch up into the touch is just lewd, and he shudders, body drawing itself tighter still when Sinbad shoves in at the same time. "B… better," he somehow manages to squeak out, his legs squeezing tight to Sinbad's waist now, _far_ from on their own accord, and the other boy actually feels _nice_ inside of him, too, slick and hard and making him feel so full that he kind of likes it. "You're… _really_ hard," is his ragged gasp to follow, toes curling with the next slick _slap_ of Sinbad's skin against his own.

 

Sinbad nods mindlessly, hips canting forward with every ragged breath he draws. All he can think about is how they’re _fucking_ , how Drakon is squeezing him better than any girl’s hand ever has, how all of it feels so _good_. “It’s ‘cause you’re--so tight,” he pants out, head bowing forward as his hand squeezes, starting to stroke. “Really, _really_ tight.”

 

He braces his other hand on the ground beneath Drakon’s head, giving himself leverage to move a bit faster, startled, shocked by how _good_ it feels now that he’s really doing it. He can only hope that it feels as good for the other boy.

 

Dragul's fairly certain that's the kind of thing someone says to a _girl_ \--ahh, but he can't be bothered to care just then, not when Sinbad shoves in at the same time that his hand strokes, and _that's_ good enough to make his eyes roll into the back of his head, a broken, keening noise torn from his throat. His hands lift on their own accord, grabbing at Sinbad's back, clawing down his spine, the urgent arch of his back and downward _squirm_ of his hips begging for him to _do that again_. "Harder," he gasps out, cock twitching at how obscene the word sounds coming from his lips. 

 

Sinbad tries to find that same way he’d been thrusting when Drakon had _keened_ like that, tries to roll his hips just right, hoping he’s found something _nice_ , and his hand speeds up. Somehow just that one word from Drakon’s lips is enough to make a shudder go through his whole body, or maybe that’s the nails dragging down his back, all of it combining to make his skin feel too-tight, his breath too-quick, his body too-hot, and he gasps out, already not sure how much longer he can make it, “Y-you close? I’m gonna--”

 

Maybe he's a little too close, embarrassingly enough. His cock _throbs_ when Sinbad slides in, deep and hard and pulsing inside of him, hitting _something_ that makes him lurch up with his mouth falling open, a dozen little whines and whimpers choked into the back of his throat. It _hardly_ makes Dragul sound like a soldier, more like a girl no matter how he wants to deny it, and the sticky-slick slide of Sinbad's hand against him isn't _helping_ \--

 

He bites his lip when he comes, bites it until it bleeds and makes him swallow down another, _awful_ incriminating sound, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed hot as he spills over Sinbad's hand, slick and messy, every muscle drawn taut and achingly, pathetically quivering.

 

Well, that’s sure as hell good enough for Sinbad.

 

Not that he _owes_ the little prick anything, but he’s pretty sure it’s good manners to come last, even though it’s hard to think about anything like that when Drakon shudders and it’s suddenly so _tight_ inside, enough that Sinbad pretty much shouts when he comes, slamming in a lot harder than he has before, collapsing a second after onto Drakon’s chest. He heaves breath for a few minutes, trying to rearrange the shattered puzzle pieces of the world into some semblance of order, and finally comes up with, “Uh…..thanks.”

 

Dragul comes up with a groan as an initial response, _trying_ not to shiver at how it feels being even slicker and hotter inside. "Did you really have to… inside?" Stupid question. Of _course_ Sinbad did. God, he's too tired to even _care_.

 

“I….like you said, you’re not going to get pregnant.” Sinbad stretches out, rolling off with a yawn. “B’sides, I didn’t really _mean_ to. Wasn’t thinking.”

 

"You going to use that excuse on whatever girl you bed next?" Dragul mutters, though there's no real vice behind the words as he flops down, too tired to bother with cleaning himself up or dressing properly again. It's _cold_ , though, without Sinbad pressed against him, and he shivers, coiling himself up into a ball as he grabs for his cloak. 

 

“No,” Sinbad murmurs, “she could get pregnant.” He looks around, then gives up, and grabs Drakon around the waist to pull him close. “You’re warm, at least.”

 

Dragul opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it again with a huff, tense for a second before he throws his cloak over Sinbad as well and hooks his chin over the other boy's shoulder. "I thought most men want children. You have enough gold to clothe a dozen now." 

 

“Mmm. Someday,” Sinbad says, closing his eyes as he finally gets properly warm. “When I can give them gold and clothes and food and a safe place to live, I’ll have a hundred. Right now I think I need to make sure my mother’s all right. Be a good son before I have a good son.”

 

"… That makes sense, I suppose." His eyes lid, and he struggles not to yawn. "Have a bunch of wives, though. Making one woman bear a hundred sons…"

 

“Or no wives at all. That way they can still marry whoever they choose, and they get fine handsome sons.” Sinbad sighs. “Someday. What about you, I bet you have a wife all ready and waiting for you.”

 

"Not yet." Probably better not to talk about how he probably would have had a dozen fighting for him, had he won this dungeon. "Probably by next year. Not married, but betrothed, I mean… women are stressful, though."

 

“Noble ones are stressful,” Sinbad agrees. “Always trying to…” He yawns hugely. “Grab your cock and stuff.”

 

" _What?_ " 

 

“Noblewomen,” Sinbad says again, eyes lidding heavily. “They’re the really randy ones, always….mmm, maybe not with you. I guess they think it’s really dirty to get caught in Lord what’s his name’s rosebushes with a commoner. _She_ didn’t get a whipping, I bet.”

 

"I don't want to hear about this," Dragul groans, flopping an arm over Sinbad's head. "I'm tired, and your _escapades_ with noblewomen _really_ sound stressful."

 

Sinbad laughs, but not unkindly, and just because they’re close enough, he brushes a kiss against Drakon’s cheek. “They are. But this was fun. Night, Drakon.”

 

It's bad, probably, that that makes him blush all over again. At least Sinbad can't really see, what with how he hurriedly tips his head forward and into Sinbad's shoulder. "Right. Good night, Sinbad." _Maybe you'll get my damned name right in the morning._

 

  

 

 


End file.
